The Bridges at Toko-ri (6 page)

“May we join you?” Nancy asked.

“Doctor won’t let me.” Then, seeing the young people frown, he added humorously, “I have no vices, no ambitions, no family and no home.”

“That’s what I mean,” Nancy said. “I can understand why you get excited about war. But we do have a home and family.”

“I’m not excited about war,” the admiral contradicted. “And I don’t think it’s necessary. That is, it wouldn’t be in a sensible world. But for the present it is inevitable.” He poured himself some coffee and waited.

“If it’s inevitable, why should the burden fall on just a few of us?” Nancy pressed.

“I don’t know. You take the other night when your husband. ...” Before he could tell of the ditching he saw Brubaker make an agonized sign indicating that Nancy knew nothing of the crash and the admiral thought, “Like the rest of America, she’s being protected.”

He salvaged the sentence by concluding, “Your husband bombed a bridge. Because he’s one of the best pilots in the navy he knocked out two spans. He didn’t have to do it. He could have veered away from the bridge and no one would ever have known. But some men don’t veer away. They hammer on in, even though the weight of war has fallen unfairly on them. I always think of such men as the voluntary men.”

Nancy fought back her tears and asked, “So until the last bridge is knocked out a few men have to do the fighting?
The voluntary men.”

“That’s right. The world has always depended upon the voluntary men.”

Before Nancy could reply, the bar boy hurried up and asked, “Is Lieutenant Brubaker here?” The boy led Harry to a back door of the hotel where Nestor Gamidge stood, bloody and scarred.

“I’m sure glad to see you, lieutenant,” he gasped. His blues were ripped and his face was heavily bruised.

“What’s up?”

“Mike’s been in a terrible fight, sir.”

“Where?”

“Tokyo. I came out in a cab.”

“What happened?”

“He’s in jail.”

“A public riot?”

“Yep.
His girl’s marryin’ a bo’sun from the
Essex
.”

“You mean his ... Japanese girl?”

“Yes, and if you don’t come in he’ll be locked up permanent.”

Tokyo was sixty miles away and to rescue Forney in person would consume many hours of leave that he might otherwise spend with his family, so Brubaker said, “I’ll phone the M.P.’s.”

“Callin’ won’t help, sir. Mike clobbered two
M.P.’s
as well as the gang from the
Essex
.”

“You two take on the whole town?”

“Yes, sir.”

Brubaker had to grin at the vision of these two tough kids on the loose and made up his mind abruptly. “I’ll help.”

He hurried back to where Nancy and the admiral sat and said quickly, “Admiral Tarrant, will you please see that Nancy gets dinner? There’s been trouble in Tokyo and I …”

“Oh, no!”
Nancy protested.

“Admiral,
it’s
Mike Forney.”

“Drunken brawl?”

“Girl threw him over.”

Nancy pleaded, “On our second night, why do you have to get mixed up with drunken sailors?”

Brubaker kissed his wife and said tenderly, “Darling, if Mike were in China I’d have to help.”

“But, Harry. ...” It was no use. Already he was running down the long hallway.

When Nancy realized that her husband actually was on his way to Tokyo, she looked beseechingly at Admiral Tarrant and pleaded, “Who’s this Mike Forney he thinks more of than his own children?” Her eyes filled with tears and she fumbled for a handkerchief.

The admiral studied her closely and asked, “If you were freezing to death in the sea and a man brought his helicopter right over your head and rescued you, wouldn’t you help that man if he got into trouble?”

Nancy stopped crying and asked, “Did Harry crash at sea?”

“Yes.”

She looked down at her white knuckles and unclasped her hands. Very quietly she said, “You know your husband’s at war. You know he’s brave. But somehow you can’t believe that he’ll fall into the sea.” Her voice trembled.

When she regained control Admiral Tarrant asked, “Has Harry told you about the bridges?
At Toko-ri?”

“No. He never talks about the war.”

“You must ask him about those bridges.”

Weakly she asked, “Is he involved with the bridges?”

“Yes. When we go back to sea, your husband must bomb those bridges.”

In a whisper she asked, “Why do you tell me this?”

He replied, “In 1942 I had a daughter as sweet as you. She was my daughter-in-law, really. Then my son was killed at Midway trying to torpedo a Jap carrier. She never recovered. For a while she tried to make love with every man in uniform. Thought he might die one day. Then she grew to loathe herself and attempted suicide. What she’s doing now or where she is I don’t know, but once she was my daughter.”

Nancy Brubaker could hardly force herself to speak but in an ashen voice she asked, “You think that ... well, if things went wrong at the bridges ... I’d be like. ...”

“Perhaps.
If we refuse to acknowledge what we’re involved in, terrible consequences sometimes follow.”

A strange man was telling her that war meant the death of people and that if she were not prepared, her courage might fall apart and instinctively she knew this to be true. “I understand what you mean,” she said hoarsely.

“Let’s get your little girls and we’ll have dinner,” Tarrant said.

But Nancy was too agitated to see her daughters just then. She pointed to the end of the bar where Beer Barrel lay at last sprawled upon his arms, his face pressed against the polished wood. Will he fly against the bridges, too?” she asked.

When the admiral turned to survey the mammoth Texan his lean, Maine face broke into a relaxed smile. “That one?” he said reflectively. “He flies against his bridges every day.”

When Brubaker and Gamidge reached Tokyo, night had already fallen and there was slush upon the wintry streets that lined the black moat of the emperor’s palace. At the provost marshal’s office a major asked sourly, “Why you interested in a troublemaker like Forney?”

“He’s from my ship.”

“Not any more.”

“Major,” Brubaker asked directly, “couldn’t you please let me handle this?”

“A mad Irishman?
Who wrecks a dance hall?”

“But this man has saved the lives of four pilots.”

“Look, lieutenant! I got nineteen monsters in the bird cage. Every one of them was a hero in Korea. But in Tokyo they’re monsters.”

Patiently Brubaker said, “Mike’s a helicopter pilot.
The other night Mike and this sailor.
...”

The major got a good look at Nestor and shouted to a sergeant, “Is this the runt who slugged you?”

“Listen, major!”
Harry pleaded. “The other night I ditched my plane at sea. These two men saved my life. This runt, as you called him, jumped into the ocean.”

The major was completely unimpressed. Staring at Nestor he said scornfully, “I suppose the ocean tore his clothes. Did he get his face all chopped up jumping into a wave?”

“All right, there was a brawl.”

“A brawl!
A brawl is when maybe six guys throw punches. These two monsters took on all of Tokyo.”

It was apparent to Brubaker that pleading along normal lines would get nowhere, so he asked bluntly, “You married, major?”

“Yep.”

“Tonight’s the second night in eight months that I’ve seen my wife and kids. I left them at Fuji-san to get Mike out of jail. That’s what I think of these two men.”

The major stared at the docket listing Mike’s behavior. “You willin’ to cough up $80 for the damage he did?”

“I’d pay $800.”

“He’s yours, but you ain’t gettin’
no
prize.”

A guard produced Mike Forney, his face a nauseating blue in contrast to the green scarf. “She’s marryin’ an ape from the
Essex
,” he said pitifully.

“I suppose you tried to stop her.”

“I would
of
stopped the ape, but he had helpers.”

When they reached the narrow streets where hundreds of Japanese civilians hurried past, Mike begged, “Talk with her, please, lieutenant. She might listen to you.”

He led Brubaker to one of the weirdest dance halls in the world. A war profiteer had cornered a bunch of steel girders and had built a Chinese junk in the middle of Tokyo. He called it the Pirates’ Den and installed an open elevator which endlessly traveled from the first floor to the fifth bearing an eleven-piece jazz band whose blazing noise supplied five different dance floors. The strangest adornment of the place was a mock airplane, piloted by an almost nude girl who flew from floor to floor delivering cold beer.

The steel ship was so ugly, so noisy and so crammed with chattering girls that Brubaker wondered how anyone had known a riot was under way and then he met Kimiko, Mike’s one-time love. She was the first Japanese girl he had ever spoken to and he was unprepared for her dazzling beauty. Her teeth were remarkably white and her smile was warm. He understood at once why Mike wanted her, and when she rose to extend her hand and he saw her slim perfect figure in a princess evening dress which Mike had ordered from New York, he concluded that she warranted a riot.

“I very sorry, lieutenant,” she explained softly, “but while Mike at sea I lose my heart to
Essex
man.
Essex
not at sea.”

“But Mike’s a fine man,” Brubaker argued. “No girl could do better than Mike.”

Kimiko smiled in a way to make Brubaker dizzy and plaintively insisted, “I know Mike good man. But I lose my heart.”

Things started to go black for Mike again and he shouted, “Not in my dress, you don’t lose it!” And he clawed at the dress which represented more than two months’ pay.

Kimiko began to scream and the owner of the Pirates’ Den blew a shrill whistle and prudent Nestor Gamidge said, “We better start runnin’ now.”

“Not without this dress!” Mike bellowed. Nestor handled that by clouting Mike a withering blow to the chin, under which the tough Irishman crumpled. Then Nestor grabbed him by the arms and grunted, “Lieutenant, sir. Ask the girls to push.”

In this way they worked Mike out a back door before the M.P.’s could get to him, but in the alley Nestor saw that Mike still clutched part of Kimiko’s dress. He pried this loose from the stiff hand and returned it to Kimiko, saying, “You can sew it back on.” Upon returning to Brubaker he reported, “Japanese girls are sure pretty.” But when Mike woke up, sitting in one of the gutters west of the Ginza, he said mournfully, “Without Kimiko I want to die.”

Gently they took him to the enlisted men’s quarters, where Gamidge put the rocky Irishman to bed. When this was done, the little Kentuckian laboriously scratched a note and tucked it into the lieutenant’s fist: “We owe you $80.
Mike and Nestor.”
Then Brubaker started the long trip back to Fuji-san, where his wife waited.

It was nearly three in the morning when he reached the Fuji-san, but Nancy was awake and when he climbed into bed she clutched him to her and whispered, “I’m ashamed of the way I behaved. Admiral Tarrant told me about Mike Forney.”

“I wish he hadn’t. But don’t worry. Nobody ever crashes twice.”

There was a long silence and she kissed him as if to use up all the kisses of a lifetime. Then she controlled her voice to make it sound casual and asked, “What are the bridges at Toko-ri?” She felt him grow tense.

“Where’d you hear about them?”

“The admiral.”
There was no comment from the darkness so she added, “He had good reason, Harry. His daughter-in-law had no conception of war and went to shreds. He said if I had the courage to come all the way out here I ought to have the courage to know. Harry, what are the bridges?”

And suddenly, in the dark room, he wanted to share with his wife his exact feelings about the bridges. “I haven’t really seen them,” he whispered in hurried syllables. “But I’ve studied pictures. There are four bridges, two for railroads, two for trucks, and they’re vital. Big hills protect them and lots of guns. Every hill has lots of Russian guns.”

“Are Russians fighting in Korea?”

“Yes. They do all the radar work. We have only two approaches to the bridges. The valley has one opening to the east, another to the west. When we bomb the bridges we must dive in one end and climb out the other.” He hesitated and added quickly, “At Toko-ri there is more flak than anywhere in Germany last time.
Because the communists know where you have to come in from.
And where you have to go out.
So they sit and wait for you.”

They whispered until dawn, a man and wife in a strange land talking of a war so terrible that for them it equaled any in history. Not the wars of Caesar
nor the invasions of Napoleon nor
the river bank at Vicksburg nor the sands of Iwo were worse than the Korean war if your husband had to bomb the bridges, and toward morning Nancy could control her courage no longer and began to cry. In her despondency she whispered, “What eats my heart away is that back home there is no war. Harry, do you remember where we were when we decided to get married?”

“Sure I remember. Cheyenne.”

“Well, when I was explaining to the girls about the birds and the bees Jackie looked up at me with that quizzical grin of hers and asked, ‘Where did all this stuff start?’ and I said, ‘All right, smarty, I’ll take you up and show you.’ And I took them to the Frontier Days where you proposed and I almost screamed with agony because everything was exactly the way it was in 1946. Nobody gave a damn about Korea. In all America nobody gives a damn.”

When the morning sun was bright and the girls had risen, Harry Brubaker and his wife still had no explanation of why they had been chosen to bear the burden of the war. Heartsick, they led their daughters down to one of the hotel’s private sulphur baths, where they locked the door, undressed and plunged into the bubbling pool. The girls loved it and splashed nakedly back and forth, teasing shy Nancy because she wouldn’t take off all her clothes, so she slipped out of her underthings and joined them.